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self. The next instant the poor widow was caught in the arms of her son.

"Where is she? My mother! O my darling mother, I am come back to you! Look! I have kept my word."

She strove, with a sudden effort of selfrestraint, to keep her misfortune secret, and wept, without speaking, upon the neck of her long absent relative, who attributed her tears to an excess of happiness. But when he presented his young wife, and called her attention, to the happy laughing faces and healthful cheeks of their children, the wandering of her eyes and the confusion of her manner left it no longer possible to retain the secret.

"My good, kind boy," said she, laying her hand heavily on his arm-"you are returned to my old arms once more, and I am grateful for it but we cannot expect to have all we wish for in this world. O my poor boy, I can never see you—I can never see your children! I am blind."

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to his bosom and wept aloud, while his wife, retiring softly to a distance, hid her face in her cloak. Her children clung with fear and anxiety to her side, and gazed with affrighted faces upon the afflicted mother and son.

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But they were not forgotten. After she had repeatedly embraced her recovered child, the good widow remembered her guests. She extended her arms towards that part of the room at which she heard the sobs and moanings of the younger mother. "Is that my daughter's voice?" she asked "place her in my arms, Richard. Let me feel the mother of your chil dren upon my bosom." The young woman flung herself into the embrace of the aged widow. "Young and fair, I am sure," the latter continued, passing her wasted fingers over the blooming cheek of the good American. can feel the roses upon this cheek, I am certain. But what are these?-Tears! My good child, you should dry our tears, instead of adding to them. Where are your children? Let me see my heart-let me feel them, I mean let me take them in my arms. My little angels! Oh! If I could only open my eyes for one moment to look upon you all-but for one little instant-I would close them again for the rest of my life, and think myself happy. If it had happened only one day-one hour after your arrival-but the will of Heaven be done! perhaps even this moment, when we think ourselves most miserable, he is preparing for us some hidden blessing."

The young man uttered a horrid and piercing-ah! cry, while he tossed his clenched hand above his head and stamped upon the earth in sudden anguish. "Blind! my mother?" he repeated "O Heaven, is this the end of all my toils and wishes? To come home and find her dark for ever! Is it for this I have prayed and laboured! Blind and dark! O my poor mother! Oh, Heaven! O mother, mother!"

"Hold now, my boy-where are you? What way is that for a Christian to talk? Come near me, and let me touch your hands. -Don't add to my sorrows, Richard, my child, by uttering a word against the will of Heaven. -Where are you? Come near me. Let me hear you say that you are resigned to this and all other visitations of the great Lord of all light. Say this, my child, and your virtue will be dearer to me than my eyes! Ah! my good Richard, you may be sure the Almighty never strikes us except it is for our sins, or for our good. I thought too much of you, my child, and the Lord saw that my heart was straying to the world again, and he has struck me for the happiness of both. Let me hear you say that you are satisfied. I can see your heart still, and that is dearer to me than your person. Let me see it as good and dutiful as I knew it before you left me."

The disappointed exile supported her in his arms.—“Well,—well,—my poor mother," he said, "I am satisfied. Since you are the chief sufferer and show no discontent, it would be too unreasonable that I should murmur. The will of Heaven be done!--but it is a bitter -stroke." Again he folded his dark parent

Once more the pious widow was correct in her conjecture. It is true, that day, which all hoped should be a day of rapture, was spent by the reunited family in tears and mourning. But Providence did not intend that creatures who had served him so faithfully should be visited with more than a temporary sorrow for a slight and unaccustomed transgression.

The news of the widow's misfortune spread rapidly through the country, and excited universal sympathy-for few refuse their commiseration to a fellow-creature's sorrow-even of those who would accord a tardy and measured sympathy to his good fortune. Among those who heard with real pity the story of their distress, was a surgeon who resided in the neighbourhood, and who felt all that enthusiastic devotion to his art which its high importance to the welfare of mankind was calculated to excite in a generous mind. This gentleman took an early opportunity of visiting the old widow when she was alone in the cottage. The simplicity with which she told her story, and the entire resignation which she expressed, interested and touched him deeply.

"It is not over with me yet, sir," she con- | distinctness. The first on which her eyes recluded, "for still, when the family are talking around me, I forget that I am blind; and when I hear my son say something pleasant, I turn to see the smile upon his lips; and when the darkness reminds me of my loss, it seems as if I lost my sight over again!”

The surgeon discovered on examination that the blindness was occasioned by a disease called cataract, which obscures, by an unhealthy secretion, the lucid brightness of the crystalline lens, and obstructs the entrance of the rays of light. The improvements which modern practitioners have made in this science render this disease, which was once held to be incurable, now comparatively easy of removal. The surgeon perceived at once by the condition of the eyes, that, by the abstraction of the injured lens, he could restore sight to the afflicted widow.

Unwilling, however, to excite her hopes too suddenly or prematurely, he began by asking her whether, for a chance of recovering the use of her eyes, she would submit to a little pain? The poor woman replied, “that if he thought he could once more enable her to behold her child and his children, she would be content to undergo any pain which would not endanger her existence."

"Then," replied her visitor, "I may inform you that I have the strongest reasons to believe that I can restore you to sight, provided you agree to place yourself at my disposal for a few days. I will provide you with an apartment in my house, and your family shall know nothing of it until the cure is effected."

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posed was the figure of a young man bending his gaze with an intense and ecstatic fondness upon hers, and with his arms outstretched as if to anticipate the recognition. The face, though changed and sunned since she had known it, was still familiar to her. She started from her seat with a wild cry of joy, and cast herself upon the bosom of her son.

She embraced him repeatedly, then removed him to a distance that she might have the opportunity of viewing him with greater distinctness-and again, with a burst of tears, flung herself upon his neck. Other voices, too, mingled with theirs. She beheld her daughter and their children waiting eagerly for her caress. She embraced them all, returning from each to each, and perusing their faces and persons as if she would never drink deep enough of the cup of rapture which her recov ered sense afforded her. The beauty of the young mother-the fresh and rosy colour of the children-the glossy brightness of their hair-their smiles-their movements of joyall afforded subjects for delight and admiration, such as she might never have experienced had she never considered them in the light of blessings lost for life. The surgeon, who thought that the consciousness of a stranger's presence might impose a restraint upon the feelings of the patient and her friends, retired into a distant corner, where he beheld, not without tears, the scene of happiness which he had been made instrumental in conferring.

Richard," said the widow, as she laid her hand upon her son's shoulder and looked into The widow consented, and on that very his eyes, "did I not judge aright when I said, evening the operation was performed. The that even when we thought ourselves the most pain was slight, and was endured by the patient miserable, the Almighty might have been prewithout a murmur. For a few days after the paring for us some hidden blessing? Were we surgeon insisted on her wearing a covering in the right to murmur?" over her eyes, until the wounds which he had found it necessary to inflict had been perfectly healed.

One morning, after he had felt her pulse and made the necessary inquiries, he said, while he held the hand of the widow:

"I think we may now venture with safety to remove the covering. Compose yourself now, my good old friend, and suppress all emotion. Prepare your heart for the reception of a great happiness."

The poor woman clasped her hands firmly together and moved her lips as if in prayer. At the same moment the covering fell from her brow and the light burst in a joyous flood upon her soul. She sat for an instant bewildered and incapable of viewing any object with

The young man withdrew his arms from his mother, clasped them before him, and bowed down his head in silence.

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A POET'S PRESENT.

THE MOUSE TURNED HERMIT.

FROM PIGNOTTI.

"O beata solitudo!"

In winter, when my grandmother sat spinning
Close in the corner by the chimney-side,
To many a tale, still ending, still beginning,

She made me list with eyes and mouth full wide,
Wondering at all the monstrous things she told,
Things quite as monstrous as herself was old.

She told me how the frogs and mice went fighting,
And every word and deed of wolves and foxes,
Of ghosts and witches in dead night delighting,
Of fairy spirits rummaging in boxes;
And this in her own strain of fearful joy,
While I stood by, a happy frightened boy.

One night, quite sulky, not a word she utter'd,
Spinning away as mute as any fish,
Except that now and then she growl'd and mutter'd;
At last I begged and prayed, till, to my wish,
She cleared her pipes, spat thrice, coughed for a while,
And thus began with something like a smile:

Once on a time there was a mouse," quoth she, "Who, sick of worldly tears and laughter, grew Enamour'd of a sainted privacy;

To all terrestrial things he bade adieu,
And entered, far from mouse, or cat, or man,
A thick-wall'd cheese, the best of Parmesan.
"And, good soul, knowing that the root of evil
Is idleness, that bane of heavenly grace,
Our hermit laboured hard against the devil,
Unweariedly in that same sacred place,
Where further in he toiled, and further yet,
With teeth for holy nibbling sharply set.

"His fur skin jacket soon became distended,

And his plump sides could vie with any friar's: Happy the pious who, by Heaven befriended,

Reap the full harvest of their just desires!
And happier they, whom an eternal vow
Shuts from the world, who live-we know not how!

"Just at that time, driven to the very brink
Of dire destruction, was the mousal nation;
Corn was lock'd up, fast, close, without a chink,
No hope appeared to save them from starvation;
For who could dare grimalkin's whisker'd chaps,
And long-clawed paws, in search of random scraps?

"Then was a solemn deputation sent

From one and all to every neighbouring house,
Each with a bag upon his shoulder went,

And last they came unto our hermit-mouse,
Where, squeaking out a chorus at his door,
They begg'd him to take pity on the

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poor.

'O my dear children,' said the anchorite, 'On mortal happiness and transient cares No more I bend my thoughts, no more delight In sublunary, worldly, vain affairs;

These things have I forsworn, and must, though loath,
Reprove your striving thus against my oath.

"Poor, helpless as I am, what can I do?

A solitary tenant of these walls;

What can I more than breathe my prayers for you?
And Heaven oft listens when the pious calls!
Go, my dear children, leave me here to pray,
Go, go, and take your empty bags away.'"

"Ho! grandmother," cried I, "this matches well
This mouse of yours so snug within his cheese,
With many a monk as snug within his cell,

Swollen up with plenty and a life of ease,
Who takes but cannot give to a poor sinner,
Proclaims a fast and hurries home to dinner."

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'Ah, hold your tongue!" the good old dame screamed ont,

"You jackanapes! who taught you thus to prate? How is't you dare to slander the devout?

Men in so blessed, so sanctified a state!
Oh, wretched world!-Ah, hold your wicked tongue!-
Alas! that sin should be in one so young!
"If e'er you talk so naughtily again,

I promise you 'twill be a bitter day!"
So spoke my grandmother, nor spoke in vain;
She look'd so fierce I'd not a word to say;
And still I'm silent as I hope to thrive,
For many grandmothers are yet alive.

A POET'S PRESENT.
TO THE LADY OLIVIA PORTER.1

Goe! hunt the whiter ermine, and present
His wealthy skin, as this daye's tribute sent
To my Endymion's love, though she be far
More gently smooth, more soft than ermines are!

Goe! climbe that rock; and when thou there hast found

A star, contracted in a diamond,

Give it Endymion's love; whose glorious eyes

Darken the starry jewels of the skies!

Goe! dive into the southern sea, and when
Thou hast found (to trouble the nice sight of men)
A swelling pearle, and such whose single worth
Boasts all the wonders which the seas bring forth,
Give it Endymion's love; whose every tear
Would more enrich the skilful jeweller.
How I command! how slowly they obey!
The churlish Tartar will not hunt to-day;
Nor will that lazy, sallow Indian strive
To climbe the rock; nor that dull Negro dive.
Thus Poets, like to kings, by trust deceived,
Give oftener what is heard of than received.

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT.

1 Wife of the poet's friend and patron, Endymion Porter.

THE VENETIAN GIRL.

The sun was shining beautifully one summer evening, as if he bade a sparkling farewell to a world which he had made happy. It seemed also by his looks as if he promised to make his appearance again to-morrow; but there was at times a deep-breathing western wind, and dark purple clouds came up here and there, like gorgeous waiters on a funeral. The children in a village not far from the metropolis were playing, however, on the green, content with the brightness of the moment, when they saw a female approaching, who instantly gathered them about her by the singularity of her dress. It was not very extraordinary; but any difference from the usual apparel of their countrywomen appeared so to them; and crying out, "A French girl, a French girl!" they ran up to her, and stood looking and talking. She seated herself upon a bench that was fixed between two elms, and for a moment leaned her head against one of them, as if faint with walking. But she raised it speedily, and smiled with great complacence on the rude urchins. She had a boddice and petticoat on of different colours, and a handkerchief tied neatly about her head with the point behind. On her hands were gloves without fingers; and she wore about her neck a guitar, upon the strings of which one of her hands rested. The children thought her very handsome. Any one else would also have thought her very ill, but they saw nothing in her but a good-natured looking foreigner and a guitar, and they asked her to play. "Oh che bei ragazzi!" said she, in a soft and almost inaudible voice; "che visi lieti!" and she began to play. She tried to sing too, but her voice failed her, and she shook her head smilingly, saying, "Stanca! stanca!"2 "Sing-do sing," said the children; and nodding her head she was trying to do so, when a set of school-boys came up and joined in the request. "No, no," said one of the elder boys, "she is not well. You are ill, a'n't you,-miss?" added he, laying his hand upon hers as if to hinder it. He drew out the last word somewhat doubtfully, for her appearance perplexed him; he scarcely knew whether to take her for a common stroller. or a lady straying from a sick-bed. "Grazie!" said she, understanding his look:-"troppo stanca: troppo." "3 By this time the usher came

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up, and addressed her in French, but she only understood a word here and there. He then spoke Latin, and she repeated one or two of his words, as if they were familiar to her. "She is an Italian," said he, looking round with a good-natured importance; "for the Italian is but a bastard of the Latin." The children looked with the more wonder, thinking he was speaking of the fair musician. "Non dubito," continued the usher, "quin tu lectitas poetam illum celeberrimum, Tassonem ; + Taxum, I should say properly, but the departure from the Italian name is considerable."

4

The stranger did not understand a word. "I
speak of Tasso," said the usher," of Tasso.”
"Tasso! Tasso!" repeated the fair minstrel.-
"oh-conhosco-Tas-so; "5 and she hung with
a beautiful languor upon the first syllable.
"Yes," returned the worthy scholar, "doubt-
less your accent may be better. Then of course
you know those classical lines—

"Intanto Erminia infra l'ombrosy piante
D'antica selva dal cavallo-what is it?""

The stranger repeated the words in a tone of fondness, like those of an old friend:

"Intanto Erminia infra l'ombrose piante
D'antica selva dal cavallo è scorta;
Ne più governo il fren la man tremante,
E mezza quasi par tra viva e morta."6

Our usher's common-place book had supplied him with a fortunate passage, for it was the favourite song of her countrymen. It also singularly applied to her situation. There was a sort of exquisite mixture of silver clearness and soft mealiness in her utterance of these verses, which gave some of the children a better idea of French than they had had; for they could not get it out of their heads that she must be a French girl; "Italian French perhaps," said one of them. But her voice trembled as she went on, like the hand she spoke of. "I have heard my poor cousin Montague sing those very lines," said the boy who prevented her from playing. "Montague, repeated the stranger very plainly, but turning paler and fainter. She put one of her hands in turn upon the boy's affectionately, and pointed towards the spot where the church

was.

"Yes, yes," cried the boy;-"why, she

4 Doubtless you read that celebrated poet Tasso. 5 Oh-I know Tasso.

6 Meantime in the old wood, the palfrey bore
Erminia deeper into shade and shade;
Her trembling hands could hold him in no more,
And she appeared betwixt alive and dead.

knew my cousin :-she must have known him in Venice." "I told you," said the usher, "she was an Italian."-"Help her to my aunt's," continued the youth, "she'll understand her:-lean upon me, miss;" and he repeated the last word without his former hesitation.

Only a few boys followed her to the door, the rest having been awed away by the usher. As soon as the stranger entered the house, and saw an elderly lady who received her kindly, she exclaimed "La Signora Madre," and fell in a swoon at her feet.

She was taken to bed, and attended with the utmost care by her hostess, who would not suffer her to talk till she had had a sleep. She merely heard enough to find out that the stranger had known her son in Italy; and she was thrown into a painful state of guessing by the poor girl's eyes, which followed her about the room till the lady fairly came up and closed them. "Obedient! Obedient!" said the patient; "obedient in everything: only the signora will let me kiss her hand;" and taking it with her own trembling one, she laid her cheek upon it, and it stayed there till she dropped asleep for weariness.

-Silken rest

Tie all thy cares up,"

thought her kind watcher, who was doubly thrown upon a recollection of that beautiful passage in Beaumont and Fletcher by the suspicion she had of the cause of the girl's visit. "And yet," thought she, turning her eyes with a thin tear in them towards the church spire, "he was an excellent boy,-the boy of my heart."

When the stranger woke the secret was explained: and if the mind of her hostess was relieved, it was only the more touched with pity, and indeed moved with respect and admiration. The dying girl (for she was evidently dying, and happy at the thought of it) was the niece of an humble tradesman in Venice, at whose house young Montague, who was a gentleman of small fortune, had lodged and fallen sick in his travels. She was a lively good-natured girl, whom he used to hear coquetting and playing the guitar with her neighbours; and it was greatly on this account that her considerate and hushing gravity struck him whenever she entered his room. One day | he heard no more coquetting, nor even the guitar. He asked the reason, when she came to give him some drink; and she said that she had heard him mention some noise that disturbed him. "But you do not call your voice

"You

and your music a noise," said he, "do you, Rosaura? I hope not, for I had expected it would give me double strength to get rid of this fever and reach home.' Rosaura turned pale, and let the patient into a secret; but what surprised and delighted him was, that she played her guitar nearly as often as before, and sung too, only less sprightly airs. get better and better, signor," said she, "every day; and your mother will see you and be happy. I hope you will tell her what a good doctor you had?" "The best in the world," cried he, as he sat up in bed, he put his arm round her waist, and kissed her. "Pardon me, signora," said the poor girl to her hostess; "but I felt that arm round my waist for a week after:-almost as much as if it had been there." "And Charles felt that you did," thought his mother; "for he never told me the story.""He begged my pardon," continued she, "as I was hastening out of the room, and hoped I should not construe his warmth into impertinence: and to hear him talk so to me, who used to fear what he might think of myself—it made me stand in the passage, and lean my head against the wall, and weep such bitter and yet such sweet tears! But he did not hear them: -no, madam, he did not know indeed how much I-how much I-" "Loved him, child," interrupted Mrs. Montague; "you have a right to say so; and I wish he had been alive to say as much to you himself." "Oh, good God!" said the dying girl, her tears flowing away, "this is too great a happiness for me, to hear his own mother talking so." And again she lays her weak head upon the lady's hand. The latter would have persuaded her to sleep again, but she said she could not for joy: "for I'll tell you, madam," continued she; "I do not believe you'll think it foolish, for something very grave at my heart tells me it is not so; but I have had a long thought" (and her voice and look grew somewhat more exalted as she spoke)

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which has supported me through much toil and many disagreeable things to this country and this place; and I will tell you what it is, and how it came into my mind. I received this letter from your son. Here she drew out a paper which, though carefully wrapped up in several others, was much worn at the sides. It was dated from the village, and ran thus:"This comes from the Englishman whom Rosaura nursed so kindly at Venice. She will be sorry to hear that her kindness was in vain, for he is dying: and he sometimes fears that her sorrow will be still greater than he could wish it to be. But marry one of your kind countrymen, my good girl; for all must love

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